When He Locked the Door, I Was Valentina

I’ve been at Montoya & Partners for three years, an interior design consultancy with three floors of open-plan offices and far too many green plants on every desk. For two of those three years, I’ve been Adrián Montoya’s best-kept secret, the founding partner. Adrián is forty-two, has a wife named Luciana, two children at the French school, and a gray Audi in the directors’ parking lot. He also has a duplicate key that he handed me without ceremony on the second Tuesday of January last year.

We use it on Tuesdays.

Outside that office I’m Nicolás: the punctual project analyst, always with reports ready before the deadline and his solo coffee always in the same mug. But when Adrián locks the door from the inside and draws the frosted glass curtains that face the corridor, I become Valentina. And Valentina and Nicolás share the same body, but not quite the same life.

It began in a gloriously unheroic way, as most things that later turn out to matter do. The company year-end dinner, too much white wine, me in the restaurant bathroom drawing the outline of my eyes with the black pencil I always keep in the inside pocket of my bag. Adrián walked in, saw me, and did not run away. That was already a novelty.

—I didn’t know —he said, leaning on the sink next to mine.

—Nobody does —I replied.

He stared at me in the mirror for a while, long enough that time became hard to measure. Then he asked if he could see me better, if he could come closer. Just that, just look. And I, for some reason I still can’t quite explain, said yes.

We didn’t get as far as anything that night. But Adrián is the kind of man who, when he wants something, does not let it slip by. The following week he sent me a message to the personal number I’d given him at dinner: “Tuesday, after seven. If you want.”

I wanted to.

***

That week Tuesday arrived with the punctuality of expected things.

I stayed in the building when everyone else left. The last to go was Ezequiel, from the render department, who came by my desk at ten to seven to ask if I was staying much longer. I told him I had to finish a budget. He left without further questions.

I went into Adrián’s office bathroom, the one only he uses, locked the door behind me, and opened the large brown leather bag I always bring on Tuesdays.

The wig first: black, long, straight, as if it had been ironed. I fitted it on slowly, checking in the mirror that the center part sat where it should. Then the red corset, which cinches my waist and reshapes what two years of hormones have been building in their own rhythm. The back-seamed fishnet stockings. The black lace thong that disappears between the cheeks. The leather miniskirt that barely reaches my thigh. The high heels in which I walk better than anyone who sees me by day at work would expect.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a moment.

Valentina. There she was.

I came out of the bathroom just as I heard the key in the lock. Adrián came in, closed the door, threw the bolt, drew the curtains. He turned and took me in from head to toe for three long seconds without saying anything.

—Four days —he said at last.

—Counting from Thursday?

—From Wednesday night, when I went to bed thinking about this.

He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. He loosened his tie with that calm of his that isn’t indifference but focus. Then he crossed the office slowly and came to me.

With Adrián there are no tentative kisses. There is a hand at the nape of my neck that tilts my head at exactly the angle he wants, and then his mouth meets mine with a calm urgency, if that’s possible. As if he knows exactly what comes next and has no hurry to shorten it. He bit my lower lip, sucked it, and let it go again. His tongue entered my mouth with the authority of someone who knows nothing in there will be argued with.

He guided me to the desk without breaking the kiss. I put my hands on the edge to brace myself. I felt him lift the miniskirt carefully and his palms moved over my hips, the lace of the thong, the stockings. He slid his fingers beneath the fabric of the thong and squeezed my ass with both hands, opening me a little, weighing me, like someone recognizing property. He stopped there, letting me stop too.

—Every meeting this week —he whispered—. In every meeting I kept getting distracted thinking about this. About this ass. About your mouth.

Me too. Every time I walked past the door of this office.

He turned me around. He set a hand on the back of my neck and pushed me gently but firmly downward until I was kneeling on the office’s gray carpet. From down there, with the wig falling over my shoulders and my heels folded beneath my body, I unbuckled his belt. The buckle clinked against the carpet when I let it drop. I lowered the zipper of his dress trousers and freed his cock, already hard, thick, with that vein along the top that stands out when he’s been thinking about this for days.

I took him in my hand and ran my tongue from the base to the glans. Adrián let the air out through his nose. I circled the tip with my lips and started sucking him slowly, taking him in little by little, letting him fill my mouth centimeter by centimeter. I slipped one hand beneath the miniskirt and pressed myself over the lace thong, feeling how hard I already was too.

—Like that —he said, and tangled his fingers in the wig without pulling yet—. Look at me.

I raised my eyes without taking his cock out of my mouth. I sucked the tip, licked underneath it, pressed my tongue right on the frenulum. I sucked his balls one by one while I kept stroking him with my hand, slowly, closing my fist at the base. Then I took him back in all the way, pushing until my throat protested and my eyes filled with black mascara tears.

—Whore —he said softly, and in his mouth it was a tender word, a compliment.

—Yours —I answered when I pulled my mouth off him for a second to breathe, my voice rough, and then took him back in right away.

I felt that salty taste of pre-cum on my tongue when he started to climb. I pulled off before he came. Not yet. Adrián hauled me up by the armpits and slammed me against the desk face down with his usual quiet firmness.

What came next was slow, as always at first. Adrián skips nothing. He pulled the miniskirt all the way up to my waist, lowered the thong halfway down my thigh, and stared at my exposed ass for a second, breathing. Then I heard the click of the lube. His fingers worked slowly, one first, then two, then three, without hurry, giving me time for each transition. That is the only real luxury he grants me: time. Everything else he runs.

The fingers went in and out with a careful rhythm, curling inside, finding the spot he already knows. When he found it, I moaned against the wood of the desk and the breath escaped me.

—There —I gasped.

—I know.

I bent all the way over the desk. I felt his breath on my back while his hands kept working, opening me, preparing me. The corset creaked faintly when I leaned farther forward and set my forearms on the cold desktop. With his free hand he was jerking me off underneath, fist closed around my cock as well, following the rhythm of the fingers inside my ass.

—Good? —he asked.

—Put it in already —I answered.

There is a moment before everything truly starts that always freezes me for a second. Not fear exactly. Something more like height: the body registers the distance before the mind does. I felt the tip of his cock resting against my entrance, pushing just a little, testing the edge.

Adrián pushed forward and the world shrank to the immediate.

He went in at once, all the way to the hilt, wrenching a long moan from me that came from my stomach. The initial burn split open and on the other side was that deep opening that has no exact name but that I recognize every time. He stayed still for a second, buried all the way inside, letting me feel the whole thickness of him. Then he started moving.

He began slowly, measuring. Hands on my hips, firm but not violent. He drew nearly all of his cock out and pushed it back in to the base, with that deep rhythm that made me rise onto the tips of my feet inside the heels. The desk creaked lightly with the first rhythm, regular and constant. The papers in the signing tray shifted a few centimeters.

—Like that —I murmured.

—How much?

—All of it. Break me.

He gradually picked up speed. His hips slammed into mine with a dull, persistent sound, flesh against flesh, the wet slap of lube between us. I kept my arms outstretched, gripping the desk edge, with the wig falling over my face every time I lowered my head. The air conditioner hummed in the background and outside, ten floors below, the city did what it always does.

He gave me a sharp slap on the ass with his open palm. Then another in the same spot, marking my skin with the red print of his hand.

—Who are you giving it to?

—You.

—Who?

—You, Adrián. Only you. All yours.

He leaned over my back without stopping. He pushed the wig off my neck with one hand. His mouth brushed the skin just below my ear. With the other hand he reached under my belly and grabbed my wet cock, jerking me in the same rhythm he was fucking me.

—Nobody else gets this out of me —he whispered, already low and hoarse—. Nobody. No one squeezes me like you do.

I know that. And that is exactly what brings us here every week.

He turned me without warning. His cock came out with a wet slap and I protested for a second at the emptiness. He lifted me, swept the desk clear with one arm —the pencil holder hit the floor, a couple of folders too— and sat me on the edge facing him, my legs around his waist. He drove back in with one clean thrust that tore another moan from me. From that position, hands on his shoulders, I looked him in the face. Adrián pushed again and kept moving with that rhythm I already know by heart but that still refuses to become predictable.

He yanked the corset open at the top. The small breasts hormones had gifted me were bared and he bent to suck them, biting the nipples just enough to leave them shining with saliva. He ran his tongue over my neck, over my collarbone, and came back to my mouth, fucking my mouth with his tongue at the same time as he fucked me with his cock, without changing the rhythm, burying himself fully every time.

He kept his eyes fixed on mine. Adrián always looks at me when we reach this point. It’s the only part I struggle to hold, not the physical part, but that gaze of his that has nothing to do with Valentina or Nicolás or the game we play inside these walls. He’s only looking at me, whatever there is beneath all of that.

—How long can you take it? —he asked, his cock hitting deep, his hand closed again around mine.

—Longer than you —I answered, between two gasps.

He laughed almost imperceptibly and drove the pace harder. He jerked me off faster, with a fist wet with my own pre-cum, never stopping the thrusts. He changed the angle by a centimeter and drove straight into the spot where his fingers had been before.

The orgasm hit when I was already close but still expected a little more: deep, spreading from the inside out in long waves, making my legs tremble around his waist. I felt my ass clench around his cock in spasms and he groaned at the sensation. I came in his hand, between our bellies, thick hot bursts that stained the shirt he still hadn’t finished taking off. I moaned against his neck, muffled but inevitable.

—That’s it —he growled, and sped up—. Just like that, squeeze me harder.

I dug my nails into his shoulders over the fabric. A few seconds later his came. I felt it inside me, the long warm pulse, shot after shot, his hips becoming rougher and shorter until they stopped completely, buried all the way in. He filled me entirely, and when he finally pulled out with his cock dripping, I felt the warm semen slide down the inner side of my thigh, soiling the fishnet stocking.

He stayed still with his forehead resting on my shoulder, catching his breath. So did I, clutching his back, feeling him come out slowly.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

***

Afterward I put myself back together in the bathroom while he buttoned his shirt sitting in the big leather chair. When I came out, he had a glass of mineral water in his hand and his tie still undone.

—I’ve got a client next Tuesday night —he said.

—Does Wednesday work?

—Wednesday —he confirmed.

I put my things back in my bag. Adrián was watching me from the chair with that after expression he’s the least able to control. There’s something in it that doesn’t fit the man from the meetings, the one who speaks in presentations with that steady voice of someone who never hesitates. Here, now, he looks rested. As if something that had been held tight for days had suddenly let go.

—How is Luciana? —I asked.

I don’t ask to hurt him. I do it because I need one of us to name what exists outside these walls, even if only once a week.

Adrián held my gaze for a second before answering.

—Fine. She’s expecting a baby. Four months.

I looked at him. He didn’t look away.

—I know —he added, before I could say anything.

I slung the bag over my shoulder.

—Wednesday —I repeated.

—Wednesday.

I left the office as Nicolás again: blue linen shirt, gray pleated trousers, white sneakers. In the elevator I ran into the night-shift security guard, who lifted his eyes from his phone just enough to greet me with a nod.

Outside it was that city heat that clings to the asphalt hours after the sun has gone down. I walked to the bus stop with my hands in my pockets, still feeling the warm damp of his cum between my cheeks, slowly sliding inside the men’s briefs I’d put back on.

Four months.

I thought about it all the way home. Not with anger. With that blend of clarity and sorrow that comes when you see things exactly as they are and there is no longer any way to keep looking at them from a more comfortable angle.

Adrián has a whole life on the other side of that locked door. A wife, a baby that didn’t exist four months ago, two children at the French school, the surname on the company sign. I have a bag with a black wig and Tuesday afternoons, or Wednesdays when Tuesdays can’t happen.

And yet, Wednesday was going to be there.

Because what happened in that office was the only situation in which I felt completely whole without needing to explain anything, without nuance or questions or the fatigue of building context from scratch with someone who doesn’t know me yet. With Adrián I was not Nicolás-sometimes or Valentina-but-really. I was both things at once, without any need for justification.

That isn’t easy to find.

The bus arrived. I got on, found a seat by the window, and rested my forehead against the cold glass. The city moved outside as always, paying no attention to anyone.

Wednesday.